


Our Angelic Devil

by Roresa



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Aged up Jeongguk and other members, Alternate Universe - Mob, Brainwashing, Coming Untouched, Dark, Dark fic, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Murder, Organized Crime, Other tags will be added as we go along, Overstimulation, Powerplay, Torture, Underage Prostitution, Underaged Jimin and Taehyung, Underaged Stripping, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roresa/pseuds/Roresa
Summary: What happens when an angel falls from grace? What if the devil rises from oblivion. What happens when the two forces meet in human souls, battling corruption and desires? Morality and compulsions? Do we surrender or do we fight until our last breath?Two boys beaten down by society find themselves at an important crossroad, one with a clear definition of what's right and wrong. The choice should be simple. And yet, a stunning creature croons so beautifully in their ears, seducing them, wanting to raise them above men to rule beside him. Will they wear the mask of humanity or let their true selves show? How long will they last? What will they sacrifice in return for security and power? Which side are they offering their souls to: the devil or the angel?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a dark fic. I'll tag as needed and I'd love for you all to leave your comments below and let me know what you think! :) But just be warned. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also: in my opinion, there's no infidelity due to the circumstances involved due to job choices some of our characters have. So, just keep that in mind. 
> 
> Happy readings!

The strobe lights pulse in time with the heavy bass, a steady pounding that easily replaces the beating hearts in the room. Replaces their steady rhythms with sensual persuasion, drowning the best of humanity with wickedness. Inhibitions fade, and greed overpowers common sense as money flies and drinks pour. It’s sin city all wrapped up in a pretty mirrored stage showcasing the most popular attractions for lusty eyes and filthy interactions. A place for people to let themselves go. To remove their every day masks and set their true selves free. Or wear the mask of a stranger, searching for something worthwhile and enticing between the heavy beats and sweaty bodies. An oasis of sorts for all walks of life.

Jimin despises it.

Wants to burn it to the ground. To smash his stilettoes into the mirrored floor beneath him. Crush the shards into fine powder and blow it into those hungry gleaming eyes as he balances his weight on his arms in a filthy wave. Slowly dropping his body into an alluring grind, eyes hooded as he watches them hiss in pain, scratching at their irritated eyes until they bleed. Agonized voices harmonizing on the pounding bass as he rolls onto his back and throws his arms over his head, gripping the edge of the stage and thrusting his panty-clad hips into the air.

Instead he rolls onto his stomach, facing the metallic pole. He reaches for it, fingers frantically clawing against his slippery reflection beneath him as his back arches, pushing his ass towards the crowd. Wishing the rough hands grabbing at skimpy fabric covering his flesh gripped tighter. Tight enough to leave horrible bruises. Nails digging into the ample smooth flesh as his heel pierces their eye socket, giving them their reward for undressing him with their undeserving glances. God, he’d look over his shoulder, lips parted in a gasp when theirs open in a scream. The sound piercing through his gut, making the controlled muscles spasm in anticipation as the sound runs sharp claws down his exposed spine.

_Control yourself, Jimin._

With a pant, his hazy gaze looks over his shoulder, watching the crowd’s reaction when he spreads his knees and pulls himself upright. _Shit, another minute. Almost finished._ Biting his bottom lip hard, he crawls to the pole, hips swaying the entire time as he pulls himself onto his heels, using the pole as support. Hooded eyes scan the crowd as they cheer, waving money like a spray can. The bass thunders through him, vibrating the pole under his palm as he spins around, wrapping strong legs around the warm metal to see the club from a new perspective. Seeing the demons under leering faces, imaging them struggling between his thighs. One hand gripping the blood-soaked bills while the other grips their horns, holding them steady right where he wants them, needs them. His thighs twitch as he turns right side up and slides down the pole slowly, one leg wrapped around the pole, the other pointed straight down. The friction burns slightly, drawing forth images of panicked red eyes as they suffocate between the strong muscles, their frantic clawing at his legs and stomach making his back arch when they try to escape, whimpering and crying out against the intimate flesh. He throws his head back against the pole, eyes never leaving his targets, yet never seeing them, desperately lost in the images. His toes curl in his heels, shallow breaths forcefully released with each heaving movement of his chest.

_Too close. It’s too much._

Licking his parched lips, he closes his eyes, body rolling against the pole, focusing on the uncomfortable prickling under their smothering gazes. God, he can barely breathe. The scent of sex and lust and ill intentions drawing a gasping moan that’s easily buried by the screaming music, leaving wet lips parted when he ends perfectly with the last note in his finishing pose. Hollering cheers pierce through his haze, snapping him back to his disgusting present. On autopilot, he struts towards the edge, stopping and sitting down right at the center of the U-shaped stage that encompasses large crowd. Desperate hands linger over his skin and he forces the rising bile down. _A few more minutes._ He wants to jump out of his own skin. Peel the flesh from his bones and toss it to this pack of hyenas to mangle while he escapes with his bleeding heart, trying to prevent his soul from becoming more tainted. Starving hands shove dirty money into his body, into the thin fabric covering him and he wants nothing more than to cover it in bleach and set it on fire. The flames would be so pretty, consuming the dirt covering the currency and then its owners. The heat returns, and he dismisses himself as professionally as possible. He’s still working after all. Disappointed cries rise around him, threatening to pull him back under but he pushes through, swims against the grabbing currents and struts backstage. Once there, he rips off the shoes and all but sprints to the private bathroom no one except the club owner uses. He’s barely bent over the porcelain bowl before acid surges through him, burning everything in its wave. It hurts. His stomach convulses with each disgusting image of the crowd and memory of their touch on his skin until he’s as empty inside as out.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, but eventually the heat fades, turning his sweaty skin clammy and cold. He rises on shaky limbs and washes his mouth. A wet paper towel corrects his make up, each coarse swipe painting a new layer over his cracked mask until the only flaw present is the hopeless light in his eyes that won’t die no matter how much he screams and begs.

 _Disgusting. You’re absolutely disgusting._  

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.---.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 

The darkness is comforting. The predictable heat emanating from the crowd as lost bodies search for oblivion in hopelessly empty hearts. If he carved his heart out with his knife, would it be a hollowed case? Just tissue and vessels around cold, empty space? Maybe it’s for the best. The internal cold beats back the heat from the floor below, keeping him comfortable under the burning lights flashing the walls in violent colors. The air is dry, the AC pumping through scattered vents, leaving his throat feeling like sandpaper. He brings a heavy glass to his lips, taking a hearty gulp of the cold amber liquid and throws his head back to swallow, smirking as he exposes the thick column of his neck for appreciating eyes. It goes down smoothly, like a wet caress against his parched throat. It slides through him slowly, pooling with heat in his stomach before radiating through his body like a warm blanket.

 

It’s quieter up here, the black VIP booths secluded and surrounded by expensive leather couches and private servers and bartenders. No one dares to disturb him here. Even the staff avoid his booth. He glances down into the gorgeous amber color, swirling the liquid and watching the whiskey spin in a mesmerizing whirlpool. His foot shakes and a wet gurgle sparks the dampening irritation back to life. It spreads like wildfire, cackling as it surges through him. He presses down harder and hands urgently claw at his pant legs, nails scratching deep gouges into the expensive leather of his shoes. Pity they’ll have to burn. They’re stylish and comfortable. Breathing deeply, he goes to take another sip, wanting the warmth back and enjoy the tingling sensations as it melts the ice within, when his foot jerks widely, spilling the amber nectar over his fingers. His vision narrows. Seeing nothing but the subtle reflection of the lights on wasted drops clinging to his skin before falling into nothing with one last wet caress.

 

Something shatters, and his hand grows wetter when the amber pours out. A muffled scream cuts through the comforting quiet, before being swallowed by the bass. The lovely heat returns with a vengeance, pulsing through every nerve in his body as his fingers release their grip, smashing the glass into soft tissue with enough force to shake his bones. It cuts deep, staining his skin red. _Such a pretty color_ , he thinks, bringing his hand up to the dim overhead lights, watching the pretty trail move down. Such a pretty color, indeed. He always did love red. The color of passion. Of fury. Of lust. Of power. _His_ color.

 

Distressed whimpers reach hazy ears, bring his attention back to the growing irritation. Lips curling in distaste, Jeongguk looks down, expression dark and full of murderous intent. He presses his foot down harder and meets wide, wet eyes with cold ones. The warmth in his blood spreads enticingly as the man tries to scream through his crushed vocal cords. He images they’re like malleable glass: tough and flexible. The thick cartilage groaning under the increasing stress until it starts to fracture. Red cracks spidering through the tube, weakening the integrity of its structure. But everything has a breaking point. His was when this worm decided to challenge him by stealing.

 

“You should give it back. It’s not polite to steal, you know.” The words are empty. No compassion, no acknowledgement that he’s doing anything but reading from some boring document. No indication that he’s about to kill the man beneath his feet and put him back to his proper position as the dirt under his shoes. More wet gurgles erupt from split lips. It grates on his ears. Annoyed and bored, he lifts his foot, smirking at the flicker of hope shining through wide pupils before stomping his foot down sharply. It reminds him of when he used to jump on a damp ground as a child. The rain-soaked dirt muffling each landing, providing a hard cushion from him to land on to prevent a jarring impact. But unlike the wet ground, the body eventually breaks. He repeats the motions, a wide smile tugging his lips apart, eyes shining bring as he increases the downward force. The worm’s mind slowly breaks at the continuous assault, pain paralyzing him until he twitches violently when he grinds his heel viciously against the rough column of his spine remaining, the structure of his neck beaten into a bloody bag of tissue.

 

“Too bad we already found it. I wonder if I would have let you live if you gave it back yourself?” He glances up, cocking his head when he looks at his men. They smile and shake their heads, making him snort. The abrupt sound completely at odds with their current situation, but it makes him smile. “Nah, you’re right.” The man’s still alive, but he’s bored. It’s not fun once they stop screaming. He pouts at the unconscious and ruined body, reflexes firing haphazardly as the brain attempts to make sense of the impossible violence wrecked upon its body. _Pretty_.

 

“You made a mess, kid. Again.”

 

“Yoongi!” Jeongguk smiles cutely at the elder. His bleach white hair shines like a beacon in the dim room, reflecting thousands of colors from each flashing strobe. And just like that, the quiet bubble around them breaks. It startles him visibly, head jerking towards the U-shaped stage in the pit. A large group of men and women and those in between swarm around the platform and greedy hands shove and pull each other to get that much closer to the prize. A soft clinking draws his attention to a half full tumbler of more amber liquid and Jeongguk smiles, reaching for it with his wet hand. His fingers barely brush the sweating glass before it moves away from him. He pouts, mind falling back into the previous haze, a soft fuzzy blanket covering each thought and action. The glass continues moving, him following mindlessly until he finds himself seated on one of the couches, fingers tangled with long pale ones around the cold glass.

 

He soaks it up. Takes in the coolness, drawing it deep into his core only to retreat for more when warm fingers caresses his, trapping him between them and the glass. A weight settles over his thighs, the pressure comforting and familiar. He falls further back against the leather, feeling boneless. More warm fingers caresses his cheek, sliding up to run through his chocolate locks. It’s comforting, so damn nice his eyes flutter. It’s weird. His mind so hazy while his body fills with adrenaline. Blood pounds in his ears, fueling each muscle to get up and do something. To use the power and authority flowing through him and wreck havoc some more. God, he wants to break and bleed. _Will Yoongi let me? I wanna leave all the pretty red lines over him._

 

“Not tonight, Jeongguk. I still have work to do.” Oh, he said it out loud. Jeongguk pouts but focuses and turns his attention to his men. So big and burly, and all his. Each in a dark suit with his symbol peaking out from under their black collars. The skin under his own ink aches pleasantly, the memory of getting the tattoo forever etched in his mind. The sound of the whirling needle, the shivering pain, the power flowing through him at each stroke. He’d been there when each of his men received their symbol of loyalty and love, kissing the abused skin gently afterwards in his own promise of his loyalty to them. The four strokes representing everything about him, about them together, about their family, and their legacy. They don’t mock his hazy expression. Expressions of disgust or anger never cross their amused faces at his current state. Rather they look over him fondly, love and respect shining through in its purest form at their boss, their king, their messiah.

 

“Hmm, I don’t want to play anymore.” The words fall in soft mumbles, deceptively gentle and child-like when the venom of the viper imitating his tongue coats each syllable until they’re dripping. _More, want more._ The men shake their heads, not bothering to hide their smile at their boss’s unquenchable thirst. They know better than to spoil his high, to bring him out of his headspace before he’s ready. They have their own lives to get back to tonight and they’d rather not return in pieces.

 

“Don’t want to play at all, boss, or just with the thief?” The question is soft as one of his men walks over to them on the couch. He kneels, making sure to look Jeongguk in the face when talking to him. He _hates_ it when people refuses to meet his eyes. He likes them. Eyes. The windows to the soul and the heart. One-way mirrors capable of reciting entire sagas through a single glance. One of the few parts of the human body incapable of deceit. The same organs that burn fiercely at the mention of the worm, the haze clearing slightly, but not enough for him to act just yet on the buzzing adrenaline coursing through him.

 

“Don’t want to play with _him._ I’m tired and bored. Take him away?” A breathlessness laces his voice, tone light even as his body twitches with pent up energy. He wants more, _needs_ to do more. His throat parched for something alcohol can’t fill.

 

A soft laugh rings through the air. “Of course, Boss. Enjoy your evening. We’ll leave your driver here to bring you home. We’ll take care of everything. Good evening Mr. Min.” Jeongguk smiles at them sweetly and with a nod, the three men move away, grabbing the body none to gently and removing it. He watches them go, pride swelling at how sweet they are to him, especially when he’s in his current state. It’s not something new or bad, per say. Just some weird headspace hardcore violence sends him into when he’s having too much fun. When he enjoys their fear and inflicting pain on others too much. When the need for violence turns into an overbearing impulse, impossible to ignore and difficult to satiate. It makes him float. God, even drugs can’t make him feel the same high. No amount of white lines could ever come close to this absolute sensation. He’s a king among men, settled on his throne of grey corpses and soiled bills and gold floating down lakes of red.

 

His hand moves without his permission, the glass rising to meet thin pink lips. Jeongguk watches as the rim parts them, sliding between them, careful to avoid the red stains. “Yours?” Jeongguk shakes his head, eyes intensely focused on the way the lips shape around the word, before his slight is blocked and the amber flows into Yoongi’s mouth. The man savors the taste for a moment, then swallows, his pale skin practically glowing under the lights. He pouts when the man draws their hands back again, taking another large mouthful. The hand carding through his hair stops and tightens between the strands, immobilizing his head. His eyes darken, but he remains still, letting the other man continue his ministrations. His body twitches with the automatic need to respond to the sudden threat. To rip the hand away and throw the warm weight from his lap. To overpower the smaller body and own it in all ways possible. To force little rivers of red flow like fountains, ribboning over pale skin, leaving a sweet trail for his tongue to follow. God, he’s parched again.

 

Yoongi tightens his hold, smirking as if he knows the thoughts rushing through his mind. He never breaks eye contact. Stormy gray meeting the deepest blue, a meeting of their souls when he leans down to press their lips together. Tilting his head, the smaller man prods at Jeongguk’s closed lips, tongue licking at the seam of his lips until he opens up. Cool liquid pours from one mouth to the other, the heady scent and taste of whisky over powering everything. It pools on his tongue, taste buds growing numb with the sharp sting. It beats the haze back, bringing him back to the present. Back to the flickering lights behind Yoongi’s white hair. Back to the bass vibrations piercing through his skin and bones to tickle the organs. Yoongi’s tongue continues to lick at his lips and Jeongguk gets with the program, his mental hard drive rebooting. The pleasant high slowly dims and he mourns the lost for a moment before tilting his head back to swallow. It burns beautifully. Only the best from Yoongi’s bartenders. No cheap Crown or Jacks on the shelves. Only the high-end bottles for his elite clientele. The heat spreads faster this time, sending his skin tingling and loosening his inhibitions, redirecting his bloodlust into something more or less pleasurable, but no less carnal. Some whiskey flows past his mouth and chapped lips follow the trail down the column of his neck, a wet tongue licking a thick strip up the visible vein, over the sharp cut of his jaw, to the corner of his mouth. Bored of the tease, Jeongguk turns his head, hands snapping up swiftly to hold Yoongi’s head in place with a harsh grip on the strands. The tumbler falls on the couch, spilling the rest of its contents onto the shining floors. He pulls sharply, plunging his tongue in to lick away the remaining whisky coating his mouth when he gasps in pain. The elder retaliates by sharply biting into his tongue, the backs of his teeth clacking against something metallic, stopping short of breaking skin. The pain sends his head buzzing, the gorgeous inside violence raising a sleepy brow, as if asking if she should wake from her nap. _Not yet._ He laughs into the kiss, and thrusts his tongue into Yoongi’s mouth, running the metallic ball over the roof of his mouth, determined to wipe his smirk away. In and out the slick muscles wrestle. Gliding between parted lips, mouths open wide and messy for an audience if they sit close enough. Blood flows south, slowly filling his length but Jeongguk ignores it, focusing on wrecking the club owner by fucking his mouth with his tongue. Thin thighs squeeze his hips, a hard bulge pressing into his lower stomach. The second the elder surrenders, Jeongguk gives him one more dirty glide before pulling back.

 

“I didn’t make that much of a mess.” It takes a moment for Jeongguk’s words to register, Yoongi still panting through swollen lips, chest leaving and cock hard in his leather pants. The buttons of his green dress shirt are still in place but his hair’s a lost cause. Strands ruffled, some stained red and pink, face flushed. He looks wrecked. As if he exerted himself riding someone in one way or another. Still, the moment’s over. He won. The heat between them slowly cools and Jeongguk’s pride swells at making stoic Min Yoongi disheveled.

 

“Shut up. You were going to if I didn’t distract your psychotic side.” Jeongguk shrugs, unable to deny anything. It’s true. In that headspace, it’s difficult for him to stop. The power rush takes over, sending him soaring so high above the clouds he never wants to come down. Completely distant. An omnipotent being untouchable by any of earth’s creations. Red colors everything, leaving her violent mark on his soul, tainting him further and god, if he doesn’t want her invading every inch of him. His muscles, his blood cells, hell, even his atoms. Wants everything to run in rivers of red. To cover him, drench him until his cells are soaked in it. So far, only Yoongi is able to stop him mid way. And even then, he can count on one hand the number of times it’s happened.

 

“Time to go, hot stuff. I’ve got work to do.” Yoongi makes to get off and Jeongguk hisses when he purposely drags his hips down the length of his thighs slowly until he sits just above his knees with legs spread wide. His bulge is barely noticeable now in the dim light, but he knows it’s there. Can almost feel it straining against the tight material, mirroring his own arousal beneath his dress pants. With a final squeeze of his thighs against Jeongguk’s, the club owner slides to his feet, adjusting his clothing and hair in one of the mirrors lining the walls behind the booth. He runs a hand through his hair, only to stop, inspecting the colored strands with a  frown. He sharply turns around to glare at the man, an action that sends Jeongguk’s hand twitching. There are very few people with the guts to treat a mob boss this way, especially someone like him. It’s why he keeps him around. Always so entertaining in his otherwise repetitive lifestyle.

 

“Fine,” he pouts, running a sticky, whiskey/blood damp hand through his hair, smirking at Yoongi’s grimace. Eh, it’ll wash out unless he finds some more fun before going to bed.

 

“You should clean up soon though. Don’t want you staining anything or freaking out my patrons.” Without waiting for a reply, Yoongi heads back through the hidden door behind the bar without a glance back, dismissing him like one of his employees. Entertaining indeed and nothing new. They’re not lovers. Friends maybe. More like business partners that occasionally fuck when the darkness gets too much and he’s in a volatile mood. There’s nothing sweet about their transactions between the sheets. Just pure, dirty fucking. Falling into their most base instincts, their world narrowing into nothing but teeth, blood, and lust. A heady cocktail that takes over, making them her slaves with a snap of her fingers.

 

Jeongguk grimaces at the stickiness coating his throat, no doubt staining his collar. His hair is one thing, but he likes to take care of his clothes. With a sigh, he shakes the lingering haze away and makes his way towards the private bathrooms behind the stage. The music grows, the base intensifying the closer he gets to the sub woofers. The scent of sex and alcohol and sweat grow thicker, a pungent smell he wrinkles his nose at. There’s yelling going on and attention caught, Jeongguk slips closer to see what the commotion’s about. Remaining in the shadows, he watches the same large group of people cheering and hollering around the U-shaped stage. Rolling his eyes at the desperation of the hands attempting to shove money at the stripper and touch them, Jeongguk finally glances up, only to stop breathing.

 

He’s there. He found him. The other half of his damned soul, shining like a beacon lost at sea.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeongguk meets his god and Jimin meets the beginning of his end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What song(s) come to mind when you read this chapter? Let me know below!
> 
> Happy readings!

** Our Angelic Devil **

**Chapter 2:**

The stage lights rove across the stage. Streams of purple, red, and green flooding the mirrored floor, creating a shifting beam of light that brightens the area sensually. There’s a man up there. No, not a man. A boy. Probably 5-10 years younger than him, covered in nothing but a skimpy fabric around his round hips, thick thighs and ample ass. Looking so perfect as the boy arches his back, on his knees, chest gliding along the reflective stage as he reaches for the pole at the back of the stage. The thick thighs narrow and extend into delicate ankles and small feet wrapped in high white stilettoes. His skin is slightly tanned, but oh so pale and looks so smooth compared to his. The boy finally reaches his destination and draws himself to his full height. God, he’s tiny and definitely underaged. A delicate creature with blonde hair, full cheeks, and cute round eyes and fuck, his mouth. All the things he could do with those thick, pouty lips. He’s gorgeous. Jeongguk would have to be mad not to acknowledge it. But that’s not what intrigues him. He’s seen plenty of gorgeous people. Males and females. Had them hanging off his arm, off his cock. Spreading their legs wide, begging him to take them high and never bring them down. To break them apart over and over, taking continuous pleasure from their bodies until he’s gorged himself by stuffing them full. He’s sent each of them packing immediately after, uninterested in hearing anything but pleasured cries and moans. Not worth more of his attention after they’ve served their purpose.

 

But this boy. It’s not his looks. He’s pretty, for sure, but that’s not it. More than his features, it’s his eyes. God, there’s such darkness lurking in their depths. If Jeongguk thinks he’s a king, then this boy is a god, floating high on the devotion of his slaves. But there’s more. No, that’s no innocent deity lording over the desperate souls offering them redemption. He’s fire and brimstone, pain and torture promising the most exquisite agony while he tears their screaming throats out with his teeth. And his eyes. Hooded and pretty, broadcasting his desires bright as day. Their need to see violence curl around him as he writhes in her embrace. The lithe body moves smoothly with the remaining heavy beats, landing in a crumpled heap at the base of the pole, innocently glancing at the audience. Jeongguk watches him slide forward, the haze clearing when he settles in front of the crowd. They grow wilder and his expression changes into one of appreciation and amusement. But Jeongguk sees through it. Almost laughs at the oblivious patrons shoving each other just to get noticed. But maybe that’s because they’re kindred spirits. Soulmates, if you will, that allows him to see through the mask. To see the disgust and loathing coating each muscle fiber when underserving hands touch his skin. A mighty righteousness at their presumed authority over him when they run their hands over his shimmering skin, pressing their filthy money into him in hope of laying some sort of claim over the creature. He wants to burn it and them. Can easily replace the ashes with his own claim, and god be dammed, he wants him. An obsessive need builds behind his sternum, drawing the bloodlust to the surface. He _needs_ the mask open, hands twitching to shatter it into splintering shards until it pools around him, summoning this god forward from its confining vessel.

 

            The flashing lights stutter intensely before whirling around the room. The show is over, and the boy elegantly rises his small height in his heels. The temporary stage is quickly pulled out of the way to make room for the dance floor. In a tidal wave, intoxicated bodies surge forward, falling into oblivion with strangers, opening their souls for corruption with lusty grinds and thrusts. The crowd pulses with the electronic sound, drinks flowing fast, cash faster. Hands unceremoniously shove down the front of tight jeans and up skimpy skirts. Limbs desperately cling to their last hope of the night as the evening wanes, the threat of the rising sun and a new day reflecting in the calculating hood stares and frantic movements. Not one wanting to go home alone. Not ready to hide themselves or find themselves yet under the smoky atmosphere of charged energy. He’s almost tempted to join, but he’s a devout man now. He must pay his respects. But first, cleaning up. It wouldn’t do to offend by showing up filthy just yet. Not when they haven’t been properly introduced and he has yet to offer an appropriate offering. Gods are fickle beings, easily scared. They crave a sweeter form of prayer.

            Staying in the shadows, he moves silently, avoiding drunken limbs and proclamations, to slip behind the abandoned stage. It’s brighter here, a warm contrast to the burning inferno in the club. The thick walls muffle the music, leaving his ears buzzing. The wetness covering his hand is drying quickly, leaving the skin feeling tight and flakey. With a frown, he pushes open the large black doors, not expecting anyone there. It’s only available for him and Yoongi’s private uses, and yet. It’s occupied. Even without seeing his face clearly, Jeongguk’s breath catches, stuck in his throat at the small barefoot figure splashing water on his face. His body bends elegantly, body thick in all the right places, flesh just begging to spill over the frail fabric hugging his hips. _Fuck_. The caught breath leaves in a rushed whistle, appreciating the thick _ass_ ets. And then there are those eyes. Unwavering and blinding in their want, in their urgent wish to set their needs free from their earthy body. He can almost hear them screaming, begging him to do something as the mask slowly suffocates them back into their subdued form.

            The boy heaves a sigh, throws the paper towel into the garbage, and turns around, only to freeze. Pretty brown eyes open wide, mouth halted in a silent scream. Jeongguk can practically taste the fear and the way his little heart beats against his ribcage. The sweetest hurricane swirls in his brown eyes as they trail over his body, leaving licks of heat caressing him under his clothes. Mask not quite perfectly in place, allowing the elder to see the presence lurking within. It’s only a glimpse. He knows there’s more there, under the cautious hesitance. But, the moment passes. The boy catches himself and immediately a thick cloak falls over his expression. His _true_ expression, and Jeongguk wants to weep when it’s hammered down. Shoved to the back in a cramped chest with no air as the boy suffocates himself, his soul. And fuck, if it’s not the purest soul he’s ever witnessed. Would be blessed to feel it’s wrath over him, stripping the flesh from his bones until the boy’s rocking in pleasure and agony under his skeletal hands. He’s tempted to beg for his god to return and not abandon him just yet. He’s barely had a taste. He doesn’t beg. He’s seen the truth now and it holds him captive. He’s going to find his god and bring him out, even if he has to break him first.

 

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Jimin freezes against the sink, heart leaping into this throat when he spots the stranger watching him. It’s sudden and unexpected. He hates anything unexpected, having grown accustomed to her fickle whims as she tosses him from one side of the canyon to the other, uncaring of when he plunges head first into the darkness, only to start all over again. The man is gorgeous. _Such a fucking understatement_. Gorgeous doesn’t start to cover it. The dark suit hugs his lean body perfectly, accompanied by the air of authority that demands his obedience. His surrender. As if he has any option of resisting. It weakens his knees and he grips the counter behind him to support himself. His body shrinks into itself, making him as small as possible but the sick part of him returns with a  vengeance. He forces his eyes shut, unwilling to look above the exposed collar bones and thick neck leading to a sharp jaw, fearing that one glance into his eyes will pull in under the sinking sand, drowning him slowly. But the terrifying energy surrounding the stranger calls to the tainted part inside, pulling it to the front until it churns through him, consuming him and loosening the tightly locked muscles until it’s only his weight on the counter keeping him standing. _No!_ Fear accompanies him quickly followed by the darkness, leaking through the perfect mask he spent the last few minutes replacing. It forces his eyes open and he barely bites back a whimper when he meets the storm head on. Large doe eyes under thick brows and soft, bitten lips. Dark brown undercut with bangs that fall into blue eyes framed with long lashes. A face that’s perfectly portioned, all sharp angles and delectable pink lips. Some would think there’s an angel before him. He knows better.

His body kicks into survival mode, every muscle prepped to run away because that’s not a man or angel before him. It’s pure evil posing in an earthy body. Blue eyes with barely contained manic need for something dark and violent, and oh god, if it doesn’t tug at something hideous inside him. A being worse than the devil himself is here with him, coaxing him without moving, drawing the images from his performance back to the forefront. His breathing grows shallow, arousal splintering through the pathetic control and he bites back a whine, slamming his eyes shut and forcing his head towards the door.

            A soft touch on his face pulls a startled cry from his throat, terrified words on the tip of his tongue ready to beg for his life. The impulse turns the words acidic in his mouth. _Don’t beg. It’s pathetic_. The warring thoughts clash in his mind: beg for survival or crush the weak impulse and hold his head high and embrace the poisoned high he promises. Jimin raises his shaky eyes and the screaming in his mind immediately dissipate in the depths of stormy blues staring into the depths of his heart. They hypnotize him, stealing the air from his lungs, preventing any sounds from escaping. A rough thumb swipes wetly over his bottom lip, leaving it sticky. The smell of iron invades his nose and the panic returns twice as strong. Frantic eyes shift from one deep pool to the other, no where to escape. He can’t breathe and god, there’s _blood on his hand. He’s killed tonight and now that stain is on **his** lips!_ He’s not sure how he knows for certain, but he’s sure. As sure as the man before him is real. He can practically taste the smoke and caramel of whiskey coming off the other man, loosening his body even more. The scent and dominating aura opening his most intimate and safe guarded places with each gentle movement. The stranger’s effect on his mind and body is completely real. The threat of his existence positively real, as real as the certainty that the man bathes himself in deprived pleasure and murder. His mind screams at him, throat tearing itself raw telling him to run away, to leave behind this evil and never return. To never look back and hide in the safety of his home. _Even there you’re not safe_ , the darkness whispers, gleefully taking control of his body and shoving its fingers inside his screaming mind, muffling the warnings into a gurgling mess.

“Don’t hide, pretty, for you are a god among insects. Never hide from me.” Evil speaks with a breathy voice. Soft, melodious and completely captivating. The thumb continues its motion, rubbing back and forth over the dirtied flesh, as if to keep him calm. “Those filthy hands don’t deserve to touch you, do they?” His head moves without his consent, left to right. _They don’t._ The motion pulls a wide smile from the stranger, and it sends icy heat flowing through his veins. “That’s right. Who did you see, pretty? What did you see while those worthless gazes raked over your skin? When they attempted to claim you with their touch?” Their gazes never waver, forever connected. His mind cries in captivity, begging wordlessly to take back control and push the incoming thoughts away. He tries. He really does, but the barrage of images is too much. Too seductive and enticing. Visions of the need pooling between his thighs at the crowd’s pain. The heat prickling his skin as the forces his pleasure on them, stealing every breath that isn’t focused on making his body burn and shake with arousal while they weep in fear and agony. _Why not? They want you, don’t they? Don’t they want the very best of you?_ _The **true** you?_ He pants against the moving digit, body trembling at the static between them and yet, his mouth is their only point of contact. The other a perfect stone, cracked wide enough for black tendrils of his evil to caress Jimin’s body, setting it ablaze with each tainting touch.

“Demons,” he whispers, breathless and light headed. Everything feels too hot and too sensitive. Even the cool air from the vents elicits a shiver. His eyes droop shut, unable to take much more, but the mesmerizing motion stops. His eyes snap open, fear wrapping around his throat at the dangerous displeasure on that angelic face. Time stands still, a moment of suspended disobedience laced with an undercurrent of violence. Jimin doesn’t dare breathe, freezes every muscle in his body under his conscious control and yet, his eyes hardens in defiance. His mind scrambles, warning sirens telling him not to test the man, that he’s no match of pure evil here. But he doesn’t listen. Cracks appear in his carefully painted mask, the deadly revolting desires making themselves known. Challenging the evil, _daring_ to make him bow.

“That’s right,” evil whispers in an expression of wonder and decisiveness. He almost keens when the movement restarts. It’s too late to stop. Fire meets water, burning recklessness meeting calm calculations. His tongue sneaks out of his own violation, and his body jerks at the taste of iron assaulting his taste buds. It’s disgusting and unsanitary. His should be slapping the hand away, throwing his shoes at the man before running out of the bathroom and straight into Yoongi’s office. Or, he could wear the shoes. Lay the man out and sit on his stomach. Hold one sharp heel at the base of his throat and the other digging into the soft tissue of his shoulder, weight balancing on his arms on the man’s thighs. He’d throw his head back, holding his gaze under hooded lids as he rolls his hips back, taking everything to satisfy the fire roaring through his body. He _aches_ inside, sucking the entire thumb into his mouth and moaning at the taste, completely lost in the possibility playing in the depths of his blue eyes.

“Demons. They’re all demons. Pathetic vermin a god like you has no business gracing with your presence, your attention.” He presses his ass harder against the hard heat emanating from the body under his, reveling in the needy cries of the demons surrounding them, growing harder when blue flame erupt around them.

“I’ll burn them all and lay their broken carcasses at your feet.” Piercing screams ring through his ears, his breathing coming out in gasps, body trembling as the arousal pools in his groin. It builds, and god, he can almost feel the sharp sting of the flames, the ghostly sensation of what the vile creatures feel. Their pleading red eyes lock onto his, the betrayal and agony so overwhelming in them that he explodes. With nothing but the air and the slight movement of the panties against his engorged length, he bursts with a stuttered moan, back arching against the bathroom counter, teeth digging in harshly into the flesh in his mouth. Iron bursts under his teeth and the hand near his face jerks at the sharp sting before stilling when he sucks hard and rhythmically until his high fades.

Watery eyes meet blown pupils and a wide smile that would send his blood curdling if the orgasm didn’t sap all traces of energy from his body. It’s too much, his body ready to shut down after soaring high, much too close to the sun. The wheels of motion are set and now he’s tumbling head first straight down, through the dirt and rocks and oceans. Straight through everything he knows and loves. Straight through until he lands in the devil’s soft palm, the large hand cradling his tiny body the same size as his thumb.

“Then, I’ll worship your body, like the alter is it.” The words echo around his head. He’s terrified and desperately tries to paint a new mask, hands covering his face and the tears of losing something precious and innocent. Of it splintering into shards of glass as a large wet tongue laves over his naked and vulnerable body, licking and prodding at his most sensitive and intimate places. “Before the undeserving demons, human and not. Until you consume their souls in your tormented pleasure.” His body and mind to rebel against each other as he curls into each slick glide between his thighs and over his chest, slowly losing his sanity as the heat pools in his groin again. “Meet your every whim and need. Be yours to command as you fulfill my every desire.” His legs part and the slick muscle laves between them, stimulating everything from his ass cheeks to mid thigh to aching cock as he shatters with a broken sob, mourning what he hasn’t lost yet but undoubtedly will.

The revived length twitches violently with nothing but air and the stranger’s words and his thumb touching him. His moans echoe off the white tiles, a high pitched cry causing him to release the thumb in his mouth.  “I’ll set you free. Free to rule all beside me in the hell we create. A symphony of raining fire and screams.” His toes curl, white exploding behind his lids, unable to keep his eyes open and yet, the dark gaze is imprinted behind his lids. The only color in the surrounding white enveloping him. “Free of that disgusting mask you hide behind until nothing but your true self remains.”

The second orgasm leaves his skin tingling painfully, body oversensitive like a live wire stripped bare. The last of his strength fades and he collapses onto the floor, mind dizzy. Rough hands gently lean him against the wall, and he flinches at the jarring coldness, startling him awake long enough to hear the stranger’s retreating words. “Remember my name, little devil, for Jeon Jeongguk will give you your horns back. Mark my words for now you are claimed by your devotee.” The softest press of lips touches his clammy forehead, dragging down the side of his face like soothing cool water on his heated skin. “Until next time, my love.” They linger on his cheek, puckering once before sharp teeth nip the soft flesh. It’s too much, and he’s barely conscious enough to realize the stranger leaves with a last linger glance. His self-awareness lingers long enough to hear the bathroom door close with a soft thud and he fades with one last desperate plea, sending it screeching to the heavens. Tears fall past closed eyelids and the sick feeling returns, filling his head with disgusting thoughts and impulses

_Help me, please. Help me protect Taehyung. Oh god, what have I gotten into? What have I gotten **us** into?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Come chat with me/get updates for everything on twitter at @R0RESA.
> 
> Remember to like/comment/subscribe!
> 
> Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taehyung ponders his existence and clings to the one thing he desperately needs, while Yoongi prays for a easy cut, knowing the pain now will be better than the loss the boys will face in the speeding future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter. FYI, summer classes start tomorrow (until the end of july) so don't worry if it takes me a while to update. It's gonna be an intense four weeks. -.-'
> 
> Also, please make sure to read the tags because they will be updated as the story progresses. Wouldn't want anyone to be blindslided. :)
> 
> Happy readings! And let me know what you think!

** Our Angelic Devil **

**Chapter 3:**

            The city is cold tonight. Mother nature blowing her cold breath through the inner-city streets, dropping the temperature to a freezing -15 degrees Celsius. The air is electric and dry. A crisp buzzing warning of the incoming snow story.

He can’t wait.

Taehyung loves the winter. Loves how pure everything looks under a soft blanket of snow when it covers the brown filth littering the city’s curbs. Of the way ice crystals glisten and sparkle prettily in the light, flirting through the air with all manner of creatures. Saying their hellos as they leave cool, wet kisses to red skin before embracing their inevitable deaths. He often wonders if his fate is the same as those fluttering snowflakes. Is he destined to leave shallow marks on covered skin, only to melt out of existence? Forgotten in this full world with no impact, leaving behind nothing but a ghost of his presence of an icy breath? Who would notice? There’s must be someone, right? Someone he’s affected enough to give him a passing thought or a lingering glance. Enough to notice his absence.

Jimin would. The pretty blonde who hides behind sweet smiles and sarcastic remarks. His roommate who dances himself to the bone, offering his body for hungry eyes and greedy touches, just so they can feed themselves the next day. His best friend who hides his demons within pretty brown eyes, glaring at the world with a sense of entitlement Taehyung only dreams he could grasp. His lover. The one he can never truly give all of himself to, no matter how desperately he wishes he could. His only true regret. At least there’s one person. _But he, too, will move on, won’t he? He too, will eventually forget you_. Maybe he is just like the dying snowflakes.

            The smashing of a glass bottle nearby draws his attention to the dark alley beside him, accompanied by foul language and drunken laughter. He barely twitches, more than accustomed to sudden loud noises. Knows better than to visible flinch where anyone can see him. The only indication that he’s alive from the outside is when he shudders at the sudden icy breeze. God, his feet ache. These crappy heels offering no more support or padding for his worn soles than slabs of concrete. Nothing new. If he’s being honest, his entire body hurts. Muscles sire and fatigued from constantly being tense and under various pressures. Again, nothing new. Still, he supposes he’s grateful for the cold. The numbness a welcome relief. At least for now. Until his next client shows up.

            It’s getting late, the streets quiet. No lingering pedestrians nor cars driving by with rumbling engines bringing people to their destinations swiftly. Restaurants and shops closed until the morning, reflecting the outside world perfectly through their windows on the backdrop of the blind darkness inside their walls. The city is effectively dead, in the absence of people and the light the bring to the bleak city. Some might say, ‘But Taehyung, you’re here,’ but he doesn’t count. Not really. Things like him don’t count as people. No, he stopped being a person long ago. To be honest, he’s not sure there’s much of him as an individual left. Everything that makes up him, creates foundations of the boy known as Kim Taehyung hides in a tiny shoe box he refuses to bring into the light. It’s contents: his heart. Even now, miles away in the heart of Harlet’s Hall– so graciously dubbed by actual people, he can hear its gentle beating. Sometimes, when it emptiness inside fills with unwanted emotions, he’ll put his ear to the splintered finish of the wooden box, listening to the ‘Ba dump ba dump’ until the rising tide wanes, pulling far away from his shores. Even now he hears it pulse, calling to him to take it out of his ashy death bed, asking for one last unification with its vessel before its internal rhythm slows and the flesh grows cold and dry as it ceases to beat. And then, Kim Taehyung, the person, will officially die. He’ll finally become what’s he’s been told he is since the day he turned 14. He’ll truly become V.

            That’s his fate. His destiny since his family sold him for a better life. A better child. Two years may not seem like much but it’s long enough o learn one’s status on the food chain. Because here the beautiful city caresses her citizens with poison dipped fingers, tainting them until they turn against each other to win her affection, her heart, her control. It’s primed to break you down, grind hope out of your very marrow until power and money strengthen the broken bones. The city is a wonderful teacher for those willing to learn, if she doesn’t kill you first. And he’s always been a fast learner and he’s willing to learn. To learn when to sharpen your claws and when to tear them out by the root. Of where to rip your organs out willingly, leaving them a dripping mess for people to walk over to avoid dirtying their fancy shoes. Of when to say thank you and spread your legs and arms for men and women three times his age as they dig into his flesh until it’s black and blue. They always dig, fingers scratching and clawing as they search for his innocence to corrupt. There’s barely anything left, maybe a few layers stubbornly remaining steadfast against brutal words and ruthless actions when his master and clients take turns peeling it off, scraping at it with blunt nails one agonizing layer at a time. He’s almost perfect, his master says. One of his best dolls, or at least he is when he does his job properly.

            Last week he would have been happy to be waiting for extra clients, knowing that the additional earnings would come home with him. Not all, after all, the master has rights to majority of it, but it’s always been enough. More than he’s used to. And he’s been learning. Learned a new trick with his mouth his master seems to appreciate during quieter moments. He likes those moments. When nothing but sweet praises fill his ears. When rough hands hold him down, making him choke and cry, offering almost loving caresses as he suffocates around the hard intrusion. It’s one of the few times he feels alive, when something tugs inside his hollow chest when those same hands gently wipe away his tears. Murmuring words of love and praise into his ear while he’s taken raw and bleeding against dirty sheets. The words swirl dangerously around his head and the boy’s mind clings to them desperately, basking in them while his body responds on autopilot. His master will grow harder within him at the tears, praising his obedience and compliance, but as always, Taehyung fucks it up.

            Eventually his mind and stop numbing the stinging sensations and they’ll build under his sternum, slamming inside the fleshy walls until he cried out, voice broken and full of gravel. The jagged rocks of each plea batter against the bruised flesh of his throat, choking him when he accidently tries to pull away with a soft ‘please’. Shame fills him then, because he failed again. He let Kim Taehyung invade in V’s domain. Immediately, the praises turn into stinging disappointment. Each work cutting into him like a thousand knives, each blunt end scraping harshly until he’s flayed open, covered in the filthy of many. ‘Need more practice,’ his master says, voice devoid of any previous warmth, and that alone has him sobbing, barely capable of muting the sobs he wants to release on begging syllables. Then the punishment comes. Swift and searing as the care turns into violation, mind going back to its pleasantly empty state with each shift of his hands and knees against the scratchy carpet of the office. His mind slowly numbing itself with each painful movement, carrying Kim Taehyung far, far away. He’s being punished still, so no. There will be no extra cash to bring home to Jimin. Not unless he can find one more to fill his new quota.

            He’s long since accustomed to the cold, but his body still shakes, goosebumps erupting on every inch of exposed flesh. Another gust of icy wind rushes by, this time stopping to curl around him in a tight embrace. Her numb fingers tease along his skin, shape teeth nipping over the tops of his thighs, sneaking up to his belly button. A cold hand spans the hollow space of his stomach, then gliding up and over his ribs, caressing the indents between each bone before he chases the wandering hands away. He pulls the flimsy trench coat tighter around his body, hunching down to down as much of his exposed legs as possible. His breath comes out in slow, white puffs. A burst of brightness against the dark. God, he’s sleepy. At least he doesn’t feel the cold as before. Actually feeling warming with each subsequent windy greeting.

            It must be closer to 2 or 3 am. With a sigh, he leans against the gratified wall, letting it support him. Leaning his head back, he indulges in the quiet. It’s nice, to be able to hear his own thoughts. Sometimes he even sings, if his throat isn’t left in shreds between clients. Voice soft and rusty with disuse and abuse as he serenades the night air, inviting it in on tales and dreams he keeps locked away in that tiny box under his cot. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, he crickets will join him. First, a cautious duet that slowly grows into a symphony, their voices soaring and falling in harmony. Tonight, he doesn’t sing, body exhausted and cold. He doesn’t realize he’s close his eyes and is on the verge of falling asleep until light suddenly floods the space around him. He slowly opens his eyes, ignoring the sharp pain at the blinding light. The car shifts to face his right and he blinks the bright sports from his vision, pushing off the wall. He carefully saunters over on numb limbs to the passenger side, just as the window rolls down. It’s dark inside, making it difficult to see the man’s face, but whatever. Not like it matters.

“Hey there, wanna go for a ride?” The voice is a low, impatient, but not all that bad sounding.

Taehyung giggles, leaning his forearms on the window sill. He bats his eyelashes, face feeling itchy and stiff under the thick make-up. “Hmm, I dunno. You wanna take me for a ride? M’not cheap, but for you,” he purposefully drags his eyes over the large body behind the wheel, making sure to bite his lip enticingly. “I’ll definitely make it worth your while, darling.” His voice is rough and low, coming off as sultry as he hopes it doesn’t crack from the lack of use. The man shifts in his seat and he cocks his head to the side, letting him eye the length of his neck to the exposed collarbones and shoulder. Hungry eyes trace over the flesh and the man licks his own lips, leaning forwards towards the window for a closer look. _Gotcha_. He’s not terrible looking. Handsome almost with heavy features and a crooked nose that’s probably been broken since childhood. Peppered hair still thick even as it thins at the sides and around his hair line. Not bad at all, and for that, Taehyung smiles sweetly.

“How much?” he roughly asks. The passenger door opens before Taehyung answers.

“$100 for my mouth and hands, $200 for my ass. Amount of skin shown not included. Anything else, additional $250,” he replied, getting into the car. Heat tingles through his extremities immediately at the hot air blowing from the vents. It’s painful, sending muted electric shocks through his fingertips and toes, skating across every inch of exposed and frozen skin. His body practically sinks into the fabric seats and he barely stifles a mean when his muscles finally loosen.

Heavy eyes stare at him from the driver’s seat while he gets himself comfortable. “How old are you? Jesus, you look the same age as my kid. Better not be underaged. Don’t need that getting back to me.”

Taehyung ignores him for a moment, taking a deep breath through his nose. The stale scent of cigarettes and subtle flowery perfume following the hot air through his sinuses and down his neck, sending his nerves tingling, thawing him from the inside as well. Content, he turns towards the man, leaning over the consul to press into his space, ignoring the way the gear shift presses harshly against his thigh. “Sure, daddy, whatever you want.”

“Jesus-“ His eyes pop wide, uncertainty slowly making a home while his gaze flutters over his face, as if trying to find the boy under the make-up. Taehyung pushes through, not willing to lose this client. He’s so close. He leans further into his space and glance up at him through the fake lashes, lips in a delicate pout. One hand settles over a jean-clad thigh, slowing sliding up and drawing his attention to where teasing fingers rub small circles near his growing bulge.

“I’ll be whatever you want, daddy. I’ll be so good for you.” With his other hand, Taehyung drags his burning fingertips over his exposed knee, caressing the flesh gently when he drags them up, pulling the coat higher up his thin thighs. His client swallows audibly and Taehyung smirks, enjoying the heat pressing down his spine at his effect on the guy when he spreads his legs wide, tracing over his sensitive inner thighs. Jimin may be the one rightfully entitled to all the power he holds in his hand, but Taehyung can’t deny the rush when a calculated move on his part make men and women want to fall between his thighs. Or him between theirs. He doesn’t have the liberty to be picky.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man utters hoarsely before butting his car into park. Large, soft hands touch his cheek and leans into the touch, keeping eye contact as he licks along the side of the thumb near his lips. _“Fuck.”_ The hand shifts and roughly grips his silver locks, slamming their mouths together. Their teeth clack, causing Taehyung to gasp. The acidic taste of cigarettes assaults his taste buds, but Taehyung blocks it out, going pliant while the client plunders his mouth, trying to shove his thick tongue as far down his throat as possible. “God, you’re perfect. So damn pretty, baby boy.”

            The words send warmth glowing through him, pulling a needy keen out between their sloppy exchange. It sooth some of the tears around that hole in his chest. Thaws the thick build up of ice that keeps Kim Taehyung frozen and locked away, leaving only V in the present. He needs more, wants to hear more. To feel wanted, desired. Even if it’s only for a few heated and painful hours. He’s seems nice enough. Maybe he’ll even feel good and get off. That’ll make master feel better about his punishment. Maybe it’ll end early and after tonight he can go back to his previous quota. He wraps his arms around the man’s neck, panting into his mouth when the tongue refuses to leave his mouth, forcing himself to breathe through his nose when possible. God, he feels alive and he relishes in the feeling, ignoring the desolate feelings that’ll follow come morning when he wakes to soiled sheets, cold, naked and alone.

“Fuck me, daddy,” he breathes, whispering to reduce the strain of properly talking and to sound more needy, desperate. Clients love it. “Tell me I’m perfect again.”

“Shit, yes. God, you’re perfect. Gonna be a good baby boy for me, hmm?”

Hands roughly slide down his body, grasping at his clothes, trying to find skin. “So, so good for you. Tell me you love me, daddy. Do you love your baby boy?” Desperation laces his words, a screaming need to hear those words. The only words that allow him to exist in this city. “Please say it.” The words are thick with emotion, but the man doesn’t notice, too caught up in his own arousal and needs.

“Sure baby. Whatever you want. Love you, fuck, let’s go.” The words he’s been waiting for settle like a heavy blanket, temporary covering the gaping hole in his chest, weighted down with rusty cement and iron blocks as they pull apart with a sloppy sound.

“Love you too, daddy. Take care of me?”

“Y-yeah. _Fuck yes!_ ” Clumsy hands fumble with the gear shift after pushing him back into his seat, lusty wide eyes meeting soft, brown ones. One gaze heated, the other empty and cold as the abyss. One stares at the flashing traffic lights and curving road. The other stares up at the twinkling stars visible through the now softly falling snow, thinking that he’s exactly like the pretty snowflakes. Maybe soon his time will come, the time when he melts away into nothing, and out of existence and memory. Just like his beloved snowflakes.

 

 

 

The phone rings again, the sound grating on Yoongi’s ears. The automated voice comes back on, cold and dry, and he’s had enough. He’s got better things to do than call and leave pointless voicemails. Movement in the corner of the room draws his attention and with a soft curse, he tosses his phone on the desk, carelessly checking to make sure the screen didn’t crack on impact. Maybe he doesn’t have anything better to do he thinks, watching a small body shift on the couch. The man leans his head back, blonde strands spreading over the back of his Italian leather desk chair. Stupidly expensive, just like everything else in his office, but appearances are important. They make his world go around. And his office makes one of the best impressions of his status, his influence. It’s wide open space, plush blue carpet and white furnishings. A large flat screen gracing the wall beside the door, directly across from a simple but elegant red oak desk. The right side of the office contains a sitting area. White leather couches and chairs around a glass center table, framing a beautiful fireplace. Right now, it’s stifling in the room. The heat tugging at the weariness clinging to his clothes from the busy night.

It’s always a busy night at the club, Paradox being his pride and joy. A chance to show everyone what he’s capable of. That he can survive on his own, off his own merits. That he can thrive in this bloody world. He’s taught himself to speak their language, understanding codes written in blood and money. Learned to read the line between shadowed deals, and how to overtake his enemies and hold their hearts in his palm, harshly squeezing the dripping organ until his puppets sing and dance to his preferred tune. It’s a terrible life, he won’t deny, but he likes it. _Lives for it_. Restlessness builds like a budding storm when things become too quiet for his tastes. He hates it. Hates how it gives him space and the time to think. To think about what ifs and the loneliness constantly plaguing him, screaming in his head until he either tears his hair out or drinks himself into a stupor. But he’s never truly alone, is he. Constant bodyguards, armed and jacked with a penchant to overreact over the smallest detail at his command, litter the corridors and hold ground outside his office. Dealers and shadier patrons harboring deals as money and packets are exchanged, occasionally the exchange consisting of a cocked gun and bloody fists within the soundproof walls. Dancers and waiters and clients touching, dancing, drinking, and eating on every floor except the fourth unless he brings someone up for a quick fuck.

God, he could use one right now. A willing body to fuck into or ride, bodies thrusting and grinding against each other. Sweat dripping down their bodies, muscles quivering to the soundtrack of lewd moans and groans. Of white-knuckled grips pressing bruising kisses to soft or hard flesh, taking everything for their pleasure, selfishly chasing the rushing edge before tumbling over with a scream. Yoongi releases a soft groans, body heating and tingling at the building need. Maybe he should have taken up Jeongguk’s silent offer. God knows the kid is an expert at tears people apart. Wrecking them physically and emotionally until their very existence lives to serve him and his pleasure. Even Yoongi finds it difficult to stay in control. It’s like the entire world is playing checkers while the leader of the Black Dragons plays chess, controlling every thought and action of those around him without lifting a single finger.

Even to someone as powerful as Yoongi, someone Jeongguk might have called a friend-if his obsession for powerplay and control let him, the man is the embodiment of the most unsavory parts of their shadowed world. The godfather who holds the heart of the city in his palm, coaxing her to spread her legs and offer her precious citizens to his silver tongue on a platter. Roses and all. Yoongi’s just happy and fucking lucky to be able to have a relation like they do. Other than talking with their bodies, and occasionally his flesh and blood, Jeongguk trusts Yoongi. Well, as much as he can, which really isn’t much at the end of the day. Still, he trusts the blonde enough to take care of him and his business handsomely, ever the gracious business partner in exchange for his consultation and loyalty. Still, he won’t deny that he’s unpredictable. Completely volatile. Temperament fluctuating like and flighty like the wind. Blowing into any scenario and leaving his cold heated influence upon his victims while lovingly caressing those loyal enough to die for him, or worse, sell their souls _to_ him. It’s frightening and awe-inspiring. Like watching an exploding star, knowing that eventually it’ll catch you and burn you screaming and begging while it smiles gleefully, holding you tighter in its boiling embrace.

Yoongi releases another sigh, and tilts his head, watching the small figure push himself to a sitting position, curling the thick blankets around his delicate frame, despite the heat emanating from the roaring fire. Of course, this night ends with Jeongguk. It _always_ ends with Jeongguk, no matter what road you take. What path or beaten down trail. Literally all avenues and dirt paths, bread crumbs and rotting corpses always lead to the man. The man no one can deny. No one _dares_ to deny. The very man who seems to want nothing more than a pretty 16 year old dancer. Cold eyes holding the gates to purgatory have settled on one poor Park Jimin. God, what a mess. The boy deserves more. Fuck, he deserves the world. Definitely better than what this piss-poor city’s given him, turning her nose at his pain and circumstances due to his lack of influence, just because it better serves those who faithfully spend their blood money to feed her materialistic desires. Yoongi thinks the city’s blind and arrogant. Eyes closed to the truth because even at 16, there’s this… air around the boy. He’s not sure what it is, but something uneasy brews under the surface of those soft cheeks and innocent eyes. Something that makes even Yoongi nervous and incredibly intrigued. He’s a pretty little thing, but that’s not why Yoongi hired him when he showed up at the doors of his club, broken and beaten, desperate for a job, any job. No. It was the way his eyes flashed when patrons underestimate him, when others take liberty with his body, his time. There’s something massive lurking inside him, slowing and carefully tainting his childhood. And maybe that’s why Jeongguk is interested. Why he claimed him in the bathroom, sending Yoongi a two word text that led him to finish three glasses of his most expensive bourbon. _He’s mine_. He didn’t need to ask who. That was made clear the second he found the kid unconscious on the floor of his private bathroom. The one only him and Jeongguk use, and occasionally the kid when he needs to escape himself from whatever.

But there’s no escaping this time. No secure place to run to. No armor or weapons that will protect him because stopping Jeon Jeongguk is like trying to catch air. Impossibly pointless and a waste of time and resources. The boy’s been marked and by the terrified look swimming in those pretty brown eyes, the kid knows it too. Releasing a soft curse, he picks up his phone, calling the kid’s boyfriend once again. The phone rings for what seems like forever and Yoongi is so ready to throw the device across the room but then the line clicks.

“Hello?” The voice is quiet, rusty and cracked in a way that immediately makes the relieved smile drop form his lips. Work then. No wonder he didn’t pick up. He glances back towards Jimin, gesturing for him to lie down and rest before internally groaning. These fucking kids. He really wants to burn the world down sometimes. Light a thousand matches and set everything on fire, until nothing but ashes from which something decent can be born.

“Taehyung, it’s Yoongi. You need to come and pick up Jimin from work. We need to talk.” The other end of the line is quiet for a few moments before ‘okay’ is whispered softly into the speaker. The line goes dead, the silence empty of words but saying everything. He wants to yell, to tell Jimin that things will be okay. Instead he drops his head into his hands, massaging his temples at the incoming stress headache. And for once, Yoongi hopes for someone other than himself. Prays that this is a one time thing, that Jeongguk just wants a pretty body to wreck for a while before throwing it aside. But it’s a lie, and if there’s one thing Yoongi stands by is his honesty, no matter its receiver. Because this doesn’t look like a one time deal, a hard fuck between silk sheets. No, this is the start of predatory obsession. The boy stands no chance against that slick sliver tongue once the manipulative words start dripping, falling prey to his designs. There’s nothing or no one in this entire world that will come between them now, for he is marked. His oral claim like a permanent score along supple flesh. Not even Yoongi can interfere. But he can hope, hell, pray even that this infatuation ends quickly, a swift severing blow that ends sooner than later. Before Jimin is sucked into the voids of hell and surrenders his soul to be tainted.

Before Jeongguk learns about sweet, silent Taehyung and decides he wants to tear the wings off of two gorgeous, beaten angels, leaving them shattered, bloody stumps on their backs while they kneel at his feet. Because, while Jimin’s soul may hold out, show some strength to hold out long enough for Jeongguk to get bored, Taehyung will break. His heart will shatter the second the hands of evil touch him, morphing his heart until no even a recognizable shell remains, and that terrifies Yoongi the most. Because while Jimin will fight him, defy him and challenge him, Taehyung will _embrace_ him. If Jeongguk ever says those twisted, magic words and manipulates him into believing him, the kid will fall on his knees and give him everything: his heart, his soul, and his faith. And that kind of devotion, well, there’s no coming back from that because once Jeongguk owns you, even death can’t save you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and chat @R0RESA, or check me out for updates. 
> 
> Until next time. 
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> Remember to leave Kudos, subscribe, bookmark, comment, etc. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait! HOLY CRAP! I GRADUATE IN A WEEK AND I GOT A JOB! #AdultingStep4Complete
> 
> Warning: Self harm, physical and verbal abuse
> 
> Happy readings!

** Our Angelic Devil **

**Chapter 4.**

            Yoongi’s deep voice filters through the speakers of the ratty phone, the deep timbre causing his aching muscles to tense uncomfortably. His heartbeat picks up, the steady rhythm accelerating into something manic. A hectic beat that confuses the feet attempting to follow its lead. The tiny bathroom he’s sneaked into feels too small, the thumping sound coming from inside the walls instead of his chest. It grows loud, easily drowning out the club owner’s voice, feeling like the grimy walls are closing in. The pale yellow lights dim, or is it his vision? Is it getting difficult to see his reflection in the mirror because his stomach is eating itself in retaliation for the lack of food over the last couple days, or is it because he can’t seem to catch his breath? Another glance into the mirror shows his true self. Not the one master wants or the one the city cultivates. No, V isn’t present right now. Kim Taehyung shows in the whites of his eyes when they open wide in fear, nervously flickering around as if to find the source of the incoming unease.

            He’s scared, mouth opening wide and throat working to suck some air in, only to choke at the muggy crap filtering in. It leaves his tongue feeling gritty and numb before sliding down his throat, coating his airway. Clogging and suffocating him while he attempts to make sense of the words spoken in his ear. It’s hard to focus, fear giggling beside him as clammy hands grip his sore throat, his thoughts racing to keep up with his heart. _Jimin. Is he alright? Is he safe?_ These are the words bouncing around his skull. They flow down into his throat, pooling and swelling with a suspended drive to jump off his tongue at the first available chance. It’s painful, holding them back, so he opens his mouth, jaw and tongue working. Tries to get the words out because the pit in his stomach hurts more every time they push against the abused flesh, only this time he knows it’s not from hunger pangs.

            Because Yoongi is calling him. The owner of the hottest club in the city. The heart of depravity and class in a constant sensual tango that even pulls at Taehyungs curiosity the couple times he’s been there. Jimin’s boss. The only adult who refuses to lay his hands and body over them. It’s not as if he’s uninterested. Taehyung’s seen the way his steely eyes darken with lust when ever Jimin walks by. Or the way his hands twitch with the desire to hold and press those long fingers into supple flesh whenever he’s seen the two of them together, sharp gaze following each touch and curve between their bodies. Maybe that’s why Taehyung trusts him. The man never hides his desires towards them, but with his word comes his promise. Something sacred, he’s told, because once given, it’s to be treated as an unbreakable promise. A vow that the man will fulfill until the end of his days to hold true. The man may be shady and definitely has fingers tied to the shadow world, but he’s honest, down to the core. It’s something he prides himself on and that reputation has advanced him far in life. And that honesty is the only reason Taehyung  trusts him to be around Jimin.

That’s also how he knows something is wrong. The last time the elder called him was when a customer slipped a little something into the dancer’s drink. God, he remembers that night vividly. V’s persona had snapped off immediately, Taehyung coming up screaming for air at the sudden switch. He’d never felt so terrified and useless. Kind of like now. He pushes and tries, but like last time, his voice dies and leaves behind a tickling sensation, conditioned by a life of silence and pain, trained to never tumble past his lips unless it’s select phrases and conversations he’s repeated between his master and clients since he was 14. The irritating sensation grows, swelling and pushing against his raw throat, leaving it itchy and him frustrated. His eyes prickle, a response to emotions only Kim Taehyung feels, but he refuses to cry. He needs to get himself together. God, he thinks he would actually die if something ever happened to the him. A boy too smart and sweet for this world. A boy who deserves to rule this decrepit city from a golden throne, not sitting in the dirt below filthy soles of the city’s favorites beside Taehyung.

He’s not religious. In his line of work and with the life he’s been handed there’s no belief in a higher power full of the love and devotion the masses push upon it. But never him. If anything, Jimin is the only one Taehyung will ever love. Could ever love with the tiny bit of that something remaining that makes him a person in this dried out husk. If anything, Taehyung’s the last person Jimin should associate with, care and love. He may be undeserving of the beautiful soul but he’s a selfish person. He doesn’t want to let him go. Won’t leave his side. He’ll gladly sacrifice everything for the elder, if only to witness his smiling and loving gaze directed towards him. Would willingly surrender to the demons that come knocking on their door, attracted by the hellfire burning in the dancer’s every glance. Will let them tear him limb from limb as long as Jimin still holds his hand and kisses his forehead before bed, letting him he loves him for eternity and more. Jimin is his everything, so Yoongi’s call sends his mind into overdrive once he forces the suffocating fear of losing his love back, holding it at bay with the taste of iron flooding his mouth when his teeth cut into the sensitive flesh of his tongue. The pain sharpens his focus, funneling his erratic thoughts until they can focus on the gravely voice.

“We need to talk.” Heart pounding, Taehyung forces himself to take a few deep breaths, doing his best to find some oxygen through the thick air. _Focus Tae. Now is not the time to panic. Stop wasting time._

Licking his dry and swollen lips, he replies, throat working overtime. “…Okay.” Without warning, he hangs up and steps out of the bathroom into a small and dingy office. There’s not much there: a shitty fabric couch, a metal desk with a laptop and a few chairs. It doesn’t need much else. The important stuff happens upstairs anyway.

Loud snores fill the silence, a sound he’d normally appreciate, but instead of relief, he feels strung out. The constant rush of clients exhausting him. They’d been particularly rough today but at least they treated him nicely. The normal air of indifference is replaced with the urgent need to get to the club, to hold Jimin as soon as possible. The entire situation has him on edge, turning his normally graceful movements clumsy and cluttered as he stumbles towards the blanket on the floor in front of the couch. He drops to his knees, ignoring the way the impact rattles through him when his feet tangle together in his haste. The sound of the impact echoes loudly and the body on the couch shifts. Blood rushes past his ears, lungs burning with the familiar sensation of holding his breath. The fire grows but he doesn’t blink, body still and silent, grey eyes focused on the sleeping body. It’s a tense few minutes and the lack of oxygen makes his mind hazy, but eventually, his master’s chest returns to its slow and steady pace and he releases his breath. Greedily inhaling and blinking back tears, he fumbles through the make-shift rest spot for his clothes, lower body throbbing in a way he might almost call pleasant with the accompanied memories. At least he’s not torn and bleeding.

His fingers scrape against denim and he untangles the shorts from the blanket, moving to pull them on when a hand wraps around his wrist. Long fingers and a wide palm easily curl around the bone, stopping him mid-motion in scared surprise.

“Where you going baby?” The words are soft and groggy with sleep, warmly washing over him like a caring embrace, relaxing his racing heart. He sends his master a small smile.

Tonight was a good night. Pleased with his earnings, his master ensured that Taehyung’s desperation was met, the black hole in his chest filling slightly with the affection he’s learned to crave, however temporary. Sweet words and soft touches that left heat blooming under his skin. Blistering arousal erupting and pulling silent moans from swollen and chapped lips with each hard thrust inside his sloppy hole. It’s all he knows. Sweat upon sweat, flesh against flesh. His body is trained and honed to crave it with calculated words and caresses. Doesn’t know how to do much else except to accept the pounding affection driven home by the fast-paced invasion of a hard length. Of the accompanying grunts after soft kisses that tug at the jagged edges in the center of his chest, rubbing him painfully raw until he falls over the end of the cliff, hurdling straight down towards the dark pit. Each thrust scrapes against his raw walls, the rim swollen until his master stills above him, hips pressed thigh against his ass, the hard length twitching inside him. The release burns through his very core every time, staining and staking his claim within his body, reminding Taehyung of who the light collar around his neck belongs to.

“Don’t leave yet.” Automatically, Taehyung drops his shorts and glances up at his master, taking in the wide but sharp features of the man who raised him and takes care of him. “Where you heading to, baby V? Speak up.” The voice is soft, a gentle blanket wrapping around his half nude form. The tight grip around his wrist the only sign of impatience along the once handsome face, before the white lines covering his desk became an everyday thing. Before the alcohol and green for money changed caring hands that ruffled his boyish locks with fondness turned into ones that yank his hair and hold his thighs open. Open wide for the city to bite and sink her claws into his flesh until more of his innocence is torn to shreds. “Good boys answer when spoken to, V.” Taehyung’s eyes widen, heading nodding quickly to push back the surging anxiety that threatens to send him into a panic attack at the thought of being _bad._ _Bad boys get punished. Was I bad? Master doesn’t love bad boys._ “but V’s a good boy, isn’t he?” Taehyung nods again, the prickly feeling retreating at the smile he receives. “Tell me what’s got you so energetic after a busy night.”

Taehyung takes a deep breath, forcing the frustrating feelings back because _he’s a good boy_ and _good boys are loved_. He swallows to lubricate his dry, dry throat. His mouth opens, and he pauses, eyebrows furrowing when he tries to pull forth the words he wants to say. Instead, a choked squeak leaves. It hurts. An amused smirk fills his sight, mocking his struggle from the lack of education and use. He knows what he wants to say but the lack of practice makes his tongue clumsy as it curls awkwardly around his mouth, laying fat and heavy and lazy under his command.

“H-have to…to….to g-go ho…home.” He finishes with a slight smile, just a small upturn of one corner of his mouth, pleased at getting his words out by himself. It was difficult but not totally terrible.

His master hums, thumb softly stroking across the inside of his wrist. “Hmmm, I don’t think so. You did good, but I think you can do much better.” Taehyung’s heart picks up, smile melting off into his blank mask. The one he wears when he’s feeling too much, like usual. He doesn’t know how to regulate his emotions without burying them and hiding behind his mask. This line of work doesn’t teach young children how to manage them, resulting in them taking over Taehyung and controlling his thoughts and actions. This is why Taehyung is weak. Why his heart lays under a shoddy mattress under lock and key. Why V runs the show until he’s wrapped in Jimin’s arms. V’s not allowed there. There’s no place for him within the warm cage outside this life. But now, Taehyung must go. Must return to the void and sleep, dreaming about white snow and soft cheeks while the city screams and burns outside their blankets.

“One more. Get me one more client tonight, baby. We’re running at bit low lately and you do such a good job of bringing in cash. You did so good night but it’s not quite enough. Won’t you find one more? For me?”

            Taehyung frowns at that. He met quota tonight, didn’t he? Did he miscalculate?

            “You met quota, but I need you to do just a bit more tonight. I’d love you so much if you do just one more for me.”

            Weariness sinks his claws into thin shoulders, causing them to sag when he glances at the crooked clock hanging onto the weird green wallpaper. 4:45am. There’s no way he can get another customer tonight. And he needs to get to Jimin. Yoongi’s words tumble around his head and his mouth open without thought. Taehyung returns for a moment. “B-but-.”A brief moment of distraction that allows him to crawl up from the abyss before he’s sent crashing down, fingers kicked off the sharp edges of his chest cavity. A sudden impact of him smacking into the bottom of the empty space echoes the immediate snap of his head to the side. It’s jarring, wiping his mind empty and leaving him stunned on the floor for a brief moment before the familiarity returns.

            “Don’t talk back. Know your place and speak when told, whore.”

Warmth trails down his chin, leaving ticklish warm kisses from where the class ring cut into delicate flesh. The wet caresses slide down and drip onto the naked skin of his thighs, sweetly coaxing V forward. It’s a pretty color, he thinks. Jimin’s favorite. It goes well against the blank slate of the fluffy snowflakes tumbling around them deceptively peacefully.

            His master rises from the couch, standing at his full height of 5’11. The shitty yellow light seems to darken, making him seem larger than usual, body stealing the previous calmer warmth from the space surrounding them. Taehyung goes to flinch, but V acts faster. He gracefully pulls white knuckled fingers from the jagged edges and wraps comforting arms around the scared boy, hiding him safely away from possible prying eyes in the deep crevasse of his chest cavity. V doesn’t flinch. Barely acknowledges the incident outside of registering it in his quiet mind.

“Look at me.” The command is growled out. Nothing sweet or soft about his voice. The previous care and fondness replaced with disgust and irritation. V knew this would happen. It always does when Taehyung is in control. For some reason, the boy maintains the white light of hope, personifying it into the snowflakes he adores until the situation results in the pretty crystalline structures breaking apart from the inside. Chasing after a folly sense of freedom they cannot come to comprehend, Taehyung ends up fucking up. Just like now, just as expected. This is why Taehyung should stay locked up safely at his place of love. The place V doesn’t dare enter, refuses to intrude into. His and Jimin’s home.

            Harsh words fly through the space between them, circling around his head until the numbing feeling returns. The hollow hole in his chest grows cold, each spitting word letting the remains of the melted ice full the space. Until Taehyung is refrozen under thick, transparent sheets and all that remains is V.

            “A filthy thing like you has no right to refuse.: A harsh grip yanks his head, shaking him back and forth like the rag doll he is. Pain laces across his scalp when his hair is pulled tight. A few strands of silver release under the pressure and for a quick moment, Taehyung slowly blinks the frost from his sad eyes at the loss of another piece of him. Despite that he doesn’t resist. Doesn’t rise to his knees to lessen the sting.

            “I told you to look at me!” V raises his eyes until high cheekbones come into view, stopping there. They don’t travel higher, knowing better than to meet his master’s gaze. “You, kid, are a dog I graciously took in. Good for nothing other than taking orders and sitting on your knees. When told to do something, you do it. No questions, V. Good boys do as they’re told. Always. And you’ll do it as a good boy, won’t you?”

            Under normal circumstances, he would agree and nod his head immediately, then apologize the best way he knows. The only way he knows. By dragging his palms steadily up the jean-clad thighs until sure fingers undo the button and slide the zipper down, letting his tongue and mouth speak for him. But Yoongi’s words stop him, the undercurrent of _something_ thawing through the ice to pull Taehyung back to the surface. _Have to go to Jimin. He’s is trouble. Yoongi wouldn’t call otherwise._ Closing his eyes, and before V can protest, Taehyung takes over and tries to move away. It’s difficult, and his hands come up to remove the hand in his hair, thin fingers wrapping around a thick wrist, tugging as hard as possible with the weak strength holding him together. Disbelief radiates off his master, the emotion quickly turning into rage at his disobedience.

            “N-No,” he manages out through the screaming thoughts. _Must get to Jimin. Jimin. Jimin!_

            “Too fucking bad.” The pain in his scalp intensifies before disappearing completely. The boy barely has time to sigh out in relief before his weak body goes flying back. The air in his lungs explodes out in a rush when the force of the kick to his chest sends him slamming into the sharp edge of the desk. God, it hurts, the area just on the bad side of numb. A small bout of worry flickers when hot pain sparks out from his tailbone when he goes to sit up. _Ugh, that’s gonna bruise real bad_. Not so good for picking up clients. “I should cut out your tongue for talking back. Would too if it wasn’t so damn talented.”

            Biting his lip, he pulls himself to his feet, the split lip nothing compared to the burning heat in his lower back. His master growls and advances forward, hands raised into hardened fists searching for a soft target to kiss and bruise. Until more red stains his already bruised flesh like a plum. He can’t avoid it. Not with the way his legs tremble. Instead, he forces his muscles to loosen and closes his eyes, accepting the incoming consequences with familiarity. At least he’ll get to take the next few days off until he heals enough to avoid scaring off clients and make money again.

            A think hand wraps around his throat, squeezing the air from his throat until it builds on either side of a dam of those fingers, the tender tissues of his throat ready to burst with movement from either side. Dark spots fill his vision, the lack of air attempting to steal his consciousness. The entire moment is complete with almost murderous intent. A moment of suspended violence that breaks with a frantic knock on the door.

            It’d almost be comedic, the way they both freeze at the sound. Bodies still in mid-motion, the raised fists barely drop to his master’s sides before the door opens with a creaking sound, disrupting the tense atmosphere with its obnoxiousness. The dark veil fluttering over his consciousness quickly retreats with each desperate gulp of air he forces down his throat. Each swallow burning the torn flesh inside in protest. He tries to get a grip on himself, blinking and shaking his head to clear the black spots from his vision.

            The first thing he sees when the spots clear is red. So much so, he assumes there must be a cut on his forehead from when the class ring harshly kissed his face, the color dripping into his eyes. But when he raises a hand to his head, it comes away clean. Covered in nothing but sweat. Because the red doesn’t belong to him. No, it belongs to the man in the doorway. The dark liquid covers the pale man from a long gash spread over his slender neck, another dripping from the larger vertical cut along his forearm. For a moment, the two in the room forget about each other, too shocked at the other’s sudden appearance to continue their “discussion.”

            “Master…” the bleeding man weakly calls, stumbling forward before catching himself on the wall, leaving bloody smears behind. The color stains the ugly wallpaper, a morbid decoration of crooked handprints. His clothes are ripped, neckline stretched and misshapen, twisted down and around a wide chest as if it’s been yanked on roughly. It’s familiar and V has a sneaking suspicion tonight was one of those nights. A night when the city’s demons come out to play. Digging their rotting fingers into the flesh of those unwillingly employed by her sadistic nature. Taking and violating on their greedy terms with little disregard for their bodies and minds. Things, not people, the city whispers, constantly reminding them of their place. Despair curls in the pit of his stomach. A call of relatable empathy and hatred bubbling in V’s gut at the thought of another of them falling into another familiar situation. The winces at each movement of his legs and the pale parlor made worse with the yellowed lighting when he finally stops to rest a few feet from where he started.

            “Shit, what the fuck?! What the fuck is happening right now? First V and now you! Shit, V, help him you idiot. Don’t just stand there.” On shaky legs he rushes over, wrapping his arms around the injured man, praying his legs don’t give out before they reach the couch. It’s a struggle. He’s so much bigger than him and V himself doesn’t have much strength in the first place. Sticky warmth stains his skin, but he ignores it. A small first aid kit is thrown at them and he sets to work quickly. “Who the fuck was it?”

            “A client. Don’t know his name,” he weakly replies, eyes staring straight ahead and voice quiet and flat. Brown strands hang in his eyes, almost covering the brown orbs that might have once been pretty glimmering with the stars of life. Now they’re dead and empty. A kindred spirit. The same snowflake as him, sought out by society and taken from until there’s nothing left. Forever stuck in this pitiful existence until one client takes a dangerous liking to them and possibly sets them free. Just like that man he’s currently treating. Did he see or feel a glimpse of freedom? Is there a sense of control in coming in here, asking for help?

            “Fucking hell. I’m gonna kill whoever he is when I find him. Make him compensate for all the money I’m gonna lose now. Just look at you two! Such a fucking mess! No one’s gonna pay for tail looking like that.” Their master rudely gestures towards them before jabbing at his phone angrily, cursing up a storm as he yells into his phone at the person on the other side. _You make me a mess,_ Taehyung softly pipes up from his cool prison before ducking under the comforting blanket of darkness.

            Focusing on keeping his hands steady, he starts on the forearm, cleaning off the blood and disinfecting the wound. The smell singes his nostrils and he blows over the applied liquid to ease the pain, but one glance up shows nothing but a pretty, blank face. Returning to his task, he grabs another clean wipe, removing the remaining red tint from the pale skin, letting out a sigh of relief at the shallow depth of the wound. He quickly wraps up the forearm and swiftly moves onto the gash on his neck. God, there’s so much blood. The wetness absorbing into his dry skin, plumping up the cells at the consequence of another’s circumstances. It drips down to pool at the dip of sharp collar bones and trails down into the green mesh blouse, darkening the color from forest to black. It’s pretty, something Taehyung would have picked out from himself. Pity it’ll have to be burned. It’s fits so prettily across his brad shoulders and chest, soft pink nipples teasingly peaking out between the threading. He really is a handsome man, pretty. Definitely beautiful, a trait to be envied. And yet, he feels nothing but pity and sadness towards him. Because this is the price of beauty and youth. The bloody payment of thin sheets of greed that fuel this city and give them purpose, carving their place deep, deep into their flesh. Thankfully, this particular neck wound is also shallow and the bleeding mostly superficial, unlike the bleeding inside the muscle that keeps them breathing.

            By the time he’s cleaned the other man up and bandaged his neck, their master returns and pushes V out of the way. Rapid fire questions are thrown at the injured man while still snapping into his phone, trying to track down the assaulter. Using this distraction, Taehyung shoves V out of the way, bursting through the silkily protective curtains covering his chest, and quickly grabs his clothes ignoring the unpleasant sensation of dried blood and sweat sticking to his skin. The urge to clean up is overwhelming but he’s already wasted enough time. The urge to see Jimin overtaking almost every thought and need. It control his body, moving the aching limbs and pushing the pain back for another time.

He sneaks out of the room, only to pause a few steps past the door. Something shiny and red lays glistening on the floor, reflecting the dim light from the entranceway. Curious, he bends down to get a closer look. It’s a bloody razor. Why is there a blade on the floor outside master’s office? Images of the shallow cutes come back, and the confusion only grows. The pretty man had the evening off, now that he thinks about it. He briefly remembers something about him wanting to be clean and ready for his monthly regular. Some huge businessman. But…if that’s the case, the there’s no way he would have taken a client tonight. That’s the rule. Master always ensures the richest clients get first dibs and priority sessions.

He risks glancing back into the room, staying in the shadows where he can see the brunette. He almost moves closer, curiosity distracting him momentarily but stops when odd flickers across his empty expression. For a moment it’s captivating. A hint of something he wants to name worry, but that doesn’t seem right. The two barely know each other. Two kindred souls connected only through a consequence of circumstance and birth. It’s an interesting splash of color on a blank canvas void of the usual, accepted expressions of lust and arousal. A barely perceptible nod towards the door jolts through him and suddenly, it clicks. Understanding flashes in neon signs all around Taehyung. He knows. Somehow the pretty man knows that there’s somewhere important Taehyung must be. Staged the perfect distraction that relieves them both for a least a few days from their suffocating lives for a brief moment. Taehyung takes a small step forwards, but the brown eyes harden and plump lips twitch down when his head twitches. The movement so slight not a single strand on his head shifts. And as soon as it came, the emotion, the display of the _person_ inside the pretty husk disappears. Passing in a blink of an eye, shining briefly before it’s gone completely, face returning to stare blankly at the wall across the couch. Dead eyes stare but take nothing in. Leaving nothing but the cold, dead stare of the perfect doll named Jin. Without another thought, Taehyung turns on his heels and runs as fast as possible down the hallway and out the side doors, catching the first bus he see to Paradox, finally letting Kim Taehyung fully out of the box. With a final warning caress, V replaces him, taking rest in the cavity of his soul as he stares out the passing street signs.

_Please be alright, my love. Please be safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I'm not totally happy with this chapter but I'm exhausted and I have one more week of school before I'm finished so I'll revamp it to match the previous chapters then.   
> Remember to leave some comments and let me know what you think!  
> You can talk to me @R0RESA

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on twitter @R0RESA. I love talking to you all and remember to subscribe and comment and all that jazz! :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Make sure to check out my other stuff! :)  
> Until next time!
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> PS: I'm thinking of doing a twitter live Q&A. Let me know what times work best for you all. I'm thinking either tomorrow (Thursday) or Friday. I don't have school so thought it might be fun for those interest in any of my fics or my writing style/process, etc. I'd prefer if you reply to the pinned tweet but if not, you can also message me or leave a comment.


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